


i lost love, but i found you (and i don't know which one i'd choose)

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Series: i lost love, but i found you [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Jamie doesn't know, M/M, and they're a bit muddled and complicated, but David is warm, how do you move on from love?, in every way, is there only one person destined for each of us?, there are feelings here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 21:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11343453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: When Jamie's lover leaves him, it's difficult. But he finds the strength to continue. And he finds respite, too, in maybe the last person he'd expected to.Or, Gary leaves and David shows up and takes the pundit spot on MNF.





	i lost love, but i found you (and i don't know which one i'd choose)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SixPonderous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixPonderous/gifts).



It all happens too quickly.  
  
Gary leaves on a Saturday.  
  
Jamie gets a call on Monday—they’re filling in with guest pundits, and it’s going to be Cesc Fabregas tonight. It was the best they could pull off on such short notice.  
  
“We also want you to come in and have a chat with David, if you don’t mind.”  
  
Jamie wracks his brain—he doesn’t normally forget people.  
  
“David? Is he new? Sorry, I can’t remember—“  
  
“David Beckham,” the producer clarifies, “we’re interviewing him to take Gary’s place as a regular pundit on MNF. He’s pretty much a shoo-in, but you and Gaz, you two had a—a sort of chemistry, I guess? And we understand that that was organic, and you might not have that with David… But we have to make sure there’s not too much friction, at least. If you two can’t get on at all, we’ll just tell him no…”  
  
“Mate. You know that Becks and I like, actually know each other, right? He was captain of England, we’ve met each other a million times.”  
  
“This meeting isn’t for you, Carra. I mean, it is, a bit, but regular ‘saying hullo on the street’ friendly isn’t really enough to do a show together. This is mostly for me and the director and the other producing staff, to try to see if you can make this work. Ed’s going to be there too.”  
  
Jamie sighs and agrees to come in a couple of hours early.  
  
David looks… predictably good, wearing a three piece suit, grey checkered with fine navy lines and a burgundy tie. No wonder Gary’d been so in love with him.  
  
The meeting goes well—they’re basically asked to analyze clips together, and Jamie automatically compensates when David doesn’t know how to work the machine or select certain players, and manages to do it without being condescending or showy. That’s how Gary had been with him, too, at first. Kind.  
  
The mechanics are smooth—David knows enough about boundaries not to stand too close, but knows enough about Jamie, about footballers in general, to touch him casually, a pat on the back, a squeeze of the shoulder as he makes a joke at Jamie’s expense… He doesn’t talk shit about Stevie, which is nice. He’s much nicer than Gary, on the whole. He’s polished in a way that Gary hadn’t been, shaped by the media firestorm that had followed him for some twenty years, heating up after his marriage, and even more after his divorce. Talent, good looks, and a mild manner had combined to make David Beckham almost universally appealing, and ergo completely perfect for this job.  
  
But Jamie—Jamie needles him a little here and there, not much, just enough to bring out some edge, something a little more fiery and a little less bland than the handsome blond smiling into the camera, sleeves rolled low, but not quite enough to conceal the tattoos on his hands. It adds something, a little spark to the show. Like when Gary’d been there.  
  
Jamie had never understood what prompted a man to cover his entire body with ink. He’d considered a couple of small ones, at the most, of important things. Artwork was for walls, as far as he was concerned. Tattoos were sacred. He’d never found anything sacred enough to carve into his skin and live with forever. He’d considered the Liverpool crest, but there was no need—everyone already knew where his heart lay.  
  
There are things he does understand about David though. The desire to stay strong, the almost obsessive working out. The days had always been regimented, and a single word had ruined everyday routine. That’s how it is for every retired footballer Jamie’s ever talked to, actually. Every one who’s been honest with him, about the fear of it, about the feeling of being adrift, all of a sudden, when they’d been sailing steadily for so long. They don’t know anything else, so they stay with what they know. The gym, when football is no longer kind to them.  
  
David gets the job. Of course he does. He’s _David Beckham_ —Jamie’s pretty sure they’d fire _him_ before they’d let David slip away, despite his producer’s assurances to the contrary.  
  
The first show is… nervy. Jamie settles in the makeup chair next to David, who’s comfortable with the process in a way Gary had never been.  
  
“Hullo, pretty boy,” he says casually, “I don’t think you even need the makeup, mate. Leave some for the rest of us. We can't all be gorgeous, Becks.”  
  
“You say that like it’s something I can control, Carra. I got orders, man, same as you. Besides, what're you talking about? You’re pretty too, you know.”  
  
Jamie laughs a little and closes his eyes as his turn comes.  
  
The show goes well enough, about as well as his first one with Gary had gone—David’s got more experience being on camera than he’d had his first time. They play off each other well. It’s a little playful, to break up the serious analysis. They crack jokes, but not so many as to seem unprofessional.  
  
David’s… more normal than Jamie’d expected. He’s not _David Beckham_ anymore, not after a few weeks of working together. He’s just Dave. Dave who likes his tea black, with honey instead of sugar, but takes cream in his coffee. Dave who likes watching panel shows, even the dorky ones like _Cats Does Countdown_. Dave, who can’t quite help being pretty, and is smart enough to take advantage of it by doing a few photoshoots that Jamie could never pull off. Dave, who’s starting to get to know Jamie just as much as Jamie’s getting to know him.  
  
Gary flounders in Valencia. Jamie watches all his matches. David invites him round after a couple weeks to watch them together. It’s like Gary’s in the room with them, when they’re sat in front of the telly together. It’s the most awkward it ever gets between David and Jamie, really. It’s the only thing they’re less than honest about when the cameras are off. They make excuses to each other, practicing for the phone calls that Gary slowly starts ignoring, maybe because they say the same thing every week.  
  
_It’ll get better._  
  
_Things will get better._  
  
_It just takes time, is all._  
  
_It’s not you._  
  
_It’s not you._  
  
It’s three months in when David looks at Jamie, sat on his sofa, looking more worn out than he ever does, as if he was the one managing this shambles of a side.  
  
“He shouldn’t have gone. It was too much.”  
  
Jamie looks at him, surprised. They’re never honest. Not about Gary. Gary’s too important to be honest about.  
  
He sighs. “Yeah. Overconfident. Top four side in a foreign league for his first managerial gig. It was a mistake.”  
  
It’s quiet after that, for awhile.  
  
“At least Phil’s there to look after him,” David says eventually.  
  
“If he lets him.”  
  
“Phil doesn’t wait for permission,” Becks says decisively, “he wouldn’t have gotten anywhere if he’d waited for permission.”  
  
They don’t talk about it much, other than when they’re watching and the odd text asking if they’ve already seen the matches yet. Jamie never watches them alone anymore. Like bad news, it’s easier to bear in the company of a friend.  
  
(At some point, he starts counting David as a friend. He doesn’t know when, but he does know why.)  
  
Other things come up, too, eventually, as old wounds are prodded at, more to examine the damage than anything else.  
  
“Was it worth it?” Jamie asks him one day. They’re watching football, but it’s Spurs-West Ham, and it’s mind-numbingly dull, serving more as background noise than anything else, really. “Was it worth leaving?”  
  
David could ask which time. Or he could ask Jamie to specify. But they’re honest with each other, and so he sits in silence for some time, thinking about it.  
  
“It was, I think. It—it was never home. Not the same. But it was good. I felt different. Freer. And it gets easier every time you do it. That first time was the hardest. But I needed a change. Got restless. Had an itch in my bones, Carra, I wanted to see the world, I wanted to speak Spanish, I wanted to see if I could hack it in other leagues, in other countries… And I could. So I did.”  
  
Jamie recognizes the feeling—it had been a familiar sight at Liverpool. He and Stevie had never felt it, had only ever wanted home, but the others… They’d ached for change, and so they’d left, chasing football or life or glittering silver.  
  
He stays quiet too—one of the things David had learned early on was that Carra, for all the stick he got for being talkative, was very deliberate about his choice of words.  
  
“Was-was Mickey okay? When he went to Real. I know it was just a year, and I know you were a Manc and he was a Scouser, you were probably already settled, but… was he okay?”  
  
David looks at him then, and moves to sit a little closer, setting a hand on Jamie’s knee and looking him straight in the eyes.  
  
“No. I tried to look after him. He spent a lot of time with me, I helped him with his Spanish. He practically moved in after awhile. But he wasn’t okay. He missed it. I think he knew it was a mistake as soon as he got to the Bernebeu. People aren’t the same as here—he looked up at it and he was disappointed. I could see it in his eyes. He—I dunno, I guess he was expecting it to be Anfield, expecting that same kind of love. But he didn’t get it. Real fans aren’t the same. I think he would’ve gone to the Championship by the end of the year, just to get back to England.”  
  
“It was his fucking agent,” Jamie says quietly, leaning into him a little, “filled his head with stupid ideas. That we loved Stevie more, or he deserved better. That he deserved the captaincy, and more trophies. And he listened to him. Listened to him even when I was telling him otherwise. We tried to fix the mistake after it’d happened, but there was just no way. Especially not when he went to United.”  
  
David wraps an arm round his shoulders at that, and Jamie feels a trickle of something warm in his stomach.  
  
“I was surprised, when that went through. I thought he’d take the pay cut and just go home. Thought he’d learned his lesson.”  
  
Jamie turns, and David’s sat close, his hazel eyes peering intently into Jamie’s, full of concern and consideration.  
  
“I thought he’d come home to you,” David says, voice low.  
  
Jamie leans in and presses his lips against David’s, slow and cautious like their first show rehearsals had been. But then David’s looking at him, and the concern turns into heat and Jamie forgets to be guarded and kisses him again.  
  
“I would’ve come home to you.” The words aren't empty. They're a hypothetical that isn’t true and could never have happened, but it means something anyway. Jamie knows what he means. _You're worth coming home to_. Jamie pulls him back in for another kiss, and another, and another, until they’re making out on David’s sofa and Jamie’s on his back with David on top of him.  
  
Someone scores a goal during the match, and the sedate commentary jumps up into shouting as the stadium erupts, and the moment breaks.  
  
Jamie’s shirt is hiked up to his ribs, and David abruptly stops kissing down his neck—his hair is soft under Jamie’s hands, and they look at each other again.  
  
There are no words for this situation, or rather, there are too many words, and none of them are quite right.  
  
“It—this doesn’t have to be a big deal, J,” David says softly, one thumb brushing against his ribs. “We can go back to a few minutes ago.” Jamie’s looking up at him, suddenly young looking, despite the grey at his temples.  
  
“He’s gone,” Jamie says quietly, “they all are.” He pulls at David until he’s kissing him again. David obliges him, but pulls away a few seconds later.  
  
“I’m not him, J.” David wants this, he does. Just not on false terms. He can’t be Gary Neville. He’s never been able to be Gary Neville.  
  
“That’s why I need you,” Jamie whispers.  
  
“Come upstairs, J.”  
  
Jamie follows, until they’re standing in front of David’s immaculately made bed.  
  
Gary made his bed, too, Jamie remembers, the thought flashing across his head too fast to control.  
  
There should be something in his stomach, something fluttery, something nervous and slightly sick—this is the closest he’s come to sleeping with anyone since Gary’s left, after all. But there isn’t. He feels warm and sure.  
  
He leans forward and kisses David slowly. They keep kissing, until David’s tugging pointedly on his t-shirt, and Jamie pulls away. He strips slowly, the way Gary had liked it, feeling David’s eyes on his body as he pulls his shirt over his head, as he unbuckles his belt and lets it fall noiselessly onto the thick, plush carpet. He unbuttons his jeans and unzips his fly and lets the denim slide down his hips and pool around his ankles.  
  
He brings David’s hands to his hips and has him push down the boxer briefs until he’s standing bare before him.  
  
He kisses David again—David’s an incredibly good kisser, though with a face like that, he’s sure to have gotten a lot of practice—and tugs his shirt over his head.  
  
He pulls away from him and sinks to his knees, undoing David’s belt and trousers and pulling out his cock, already hard. Jamie widens his eyes a little.  
  
“Can I taste?” He asks softly, and he doesn’t know why, but he wants David to enjoy himself, almost more than he wants to get off himself.  
  
He doesn’t quite understand the strong hands on his arms, lifting him back up to his feet and kissing him again.  
  
“Not tonight, J,” David whispers, “let me take care of you tonight.” Jamie nods, dazed and more moved than he cares to admit.  
  
“Which do you want, love? Top or bottom?” One of David’s hands is warm on his hip, the other cupping his neck, and Jamie feels looked after already, just being held like this. It’s been so _long_ since he’s been looked after.  
  
He lays on the bed instead of answering David’s question, spreading his legs questioningly. “This is okay?”  
  
David nods. “Of course it is, babe. Whatever you need tonight is okay.”  
  
Jamie reaches for him, and David fetches the lube and a condom, only for Jamie to purse his lips and shake his head. He pulls the condom from David’s fingers and puts it back on the nightstand.  
  
“Is this okay too?” His voice comes out in a whisper, and they both know this isn’t casual anymore.  
  
“Yeah,” David breathes, almost overwhelmed by the trust Jamie’s showing him, “yeah, love, this is okay.” He kneels over him, leaning down to kiss him as he slicks his fingers and works to open him up.  
  
Jamie’s tight—it’s been a long time, and with Gary, he hadn’t bottomed much anyway. He whimpers as David stretches him, but he whines when he finally pulls his fingers out, too.  
  
“Please. I need you, Becks.”  
  
David shushes him and kisses him as he slicks himself up and pushes into him. Jamie pulls away, leaning back against the pillow and letting out a low moan.  
  
“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Should we stop?” David asks, voice gentle.  
  
“Fine. Just. It’s been a long time,” Jamie whispers, wrapping his arms around David’s neck. “Please. I’m fine. Just go slow?”  
  
David does, goes slow until Jamie starts moaning a little, long, low moans that make David’s heart stutter in his chest each time, because somehow, he’s always expecting to hear Gary’s name from the man under him.  
  
He never does. Jamie knows who he’s with, and lets out an impatient noise when it’s been long enough. “Faster, Davey. Please.”  
  
David kisses him and obliges, quickening his pace little by little until Jamie’s holding him tight and trying to touch himself. David pulls himself away, creates enough space between their bodies for Jamie to stroke himself. David can see the extra stimulation in his face—in the way that his mouth falls open and David just _has_ to kiss him, just has to taste him, even as his hips thrust faster and Jamie’s hand works furiously between them.  
  
When Jamie comes, he’s caught by surprise by his own orgasm, arching his back and biting at David’s lower lip, a wordless cry slipping from between his parted lips.  
  
David comes just a few seconds later, and he cleans them up quickly before turning off the lamp and gathering Jamie into his arms.  
  
“Are you okay?” he asks softly, uncertain of how Jamie will feel. “This—this doesn’t have to be something we keep up with. We can just be friends in the morning.”  
  
“I should be asking _you_ if you’re okay,” Jamie says, voice fond and warm as his thumb brushes over David’s lip, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bite you. Are you bleeding?”  
  
“Barely,” David admits, “but don’t worry, it’s a badge of honor. Means I got to sleep with you, at least. Otherwise I would wake up and think it was all a dream.”  
  
“Even though I’m going to be naked in your bed in the morning?” Jamie teases, snuggling closer and slipping a leg in between David’s.  
  
“Wasn’t sure if you would be here when I woke up,” David admits, holding him close.  
  
David drifts off wondering if Jamie’s still thinking about Gary.  
  
Jamie feels _something_ , beyond a doubt, though he can’t quite be sure what it is. It’s big, filling his entire chest, and it almost makes him want to cry, but his eyes are dry. He lays awake pondering it for awhile until David throws a warm arm over his stomach and he can feel his breath beating against his neck. As he’s drifting off, he realizes what it is.  
  
He’d nearly forgotten what hope felt like.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a quick drabble but hey
> 
> also I have another part written up for this! it's really quite angsty but let me know if you'd like to see it
> 
> (who'm I kidding, nobody's gonna read this anyway)
> 
> Edit: Uh, I guess I was wrong about that last part. This was in response to a rarepair challenge, and I was given both Stevie/Gary and Carra/Becks. Stevie/Gary turned out a quick little drabble, but this sort of took on a life of its own. (as you could probably tell)
> 
> This is also the first time I've actually written Becks as a proper character-normally I just use him as part of Gary's past or as someone for Jamie to be jealous of, so hopefully it's not too far off. :)


End file.
